


Lavender Roses

by flowersandteeth



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Dark Peter Parker, Dark Tony Stark, FBI Agent Tony, Light BDSM, M/M, Mob Enforcer!Peter Parker, One Shot, Organized Crime, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandteeth/pseuds/flowersandteeth
Summary: Peter Parker could kill Tony, quickly and efficiently and make it look like an accident, but that’s not going to happen.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 179





	Lavender Roses

_Lavender roses can offer a daily reminder of your love and eagerness to grow your relationship._

***

The crisscross of yellow tape comes down easily, flutters a little in the chilly breeze before settling limply along the door frame. Tony pushes the door open, steps inside.

It should be cold in the little two-story, should feel (should be) empty. It’s not. It’s warm; the heat’s going, further stirring up the scent of cooking food: Italian. Wine-based red sauce and the rich scent of garlic butter. Nothing fancy, but familiar.

Tony’s favorite.

He doesn’t bother pulling his firearm; unsnaps the holster out of habit, but leaves the gun where it is. He won’t be needing it.

Down the hallway, there are still smears of red (Italian, coincidentally, but not of the culinary variety) on the subtly textured white paint. A few frames are missing from the careful arrangement along one wall, violently relocated to the carpet, jagged cracks in the glass of each that distort the staged smiles in the photos.

Cicero’s little picture-perfect family. Not so perfect anymore. It’s cynical, but Tony doesn’t feel all that bad for the man; no one climbs into a Family’s pocket without risking an unnatural end.

At the arch leading into the kitchen, Tony stops. Looks.

Parker’s standing there, humming to himself in front of the stove while he plates two servings of what’s bound to be perfectly made pasta. There are candles on the small rectangular island between them, a small bouquet of lavender roses in a vase of water as the centerpiece. Two full place settings. Tony meanders forward, reaches out to pluck a rose, brings the pale purple bloom to his nose and inhales.

“Do you like them?”

Tony puts the flower back, looks up. 

Peter’s watching him, a small, affectionate smile on his face. It doesn’t touch his eyes.

The younger man looks good; pristine grey slacks, white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. When he puts his hands in his pockets, Tony automatically catalogs the shift of muscles in Peter’s forearms, and the way the fabric of the pants stretch taught over the front of the trim hips.

“They’re always nice,” Tony says. He means it, too. Isn’t trying to placate the beast.

Peter’s smile grows, pink blooming across his cheeks. “Dinner’s ready. I made your favorite.”

Tony just nods. He considers keeping his jacket on, isn’t sure he’ll be able to handle the exposure (even though he’s already in the lion’s den, already caught, walked straight in). But Peter makes the decision for him.

The gentle tug and slide of the wool fabric from Tony’s shoulders, down his arms, feels intimate. More so when it stops halfway down, and Peter tugs just a little, tightens it in the barest suggestion of restraint.

Lips brush the back of Tony’s neck, just above his collar, and a spark of fight-or-flight heat shoots down Tony’s spine...and then the jacket’s gone, and Peter’s stepping around him to hang it up by the entrance, beside the apron the younger must have taken off before Tony arrived.

They don’t talk.

Peter places a full plate in front of him, and then one for himself, and they eat, standing, in tense but companionable silence. One glass of wine, only, like always. Peter likes to keep a clear head. Tony partakes, only because the younger uncorks the bottle in front of him and takes a sip straight from the source. 

Because Peter wants him to stay. Wants Tony to trust.

After dinner, they clear the plates together, stand side by side at a dead man’s sink. Tony washes, Peter dries.

The domesticity never completely veils the wrongness. The kitchen is spotless, but there’s still blood on the walls outside this space, in some places on the carpet. Broken glass from the smashed-in window beside the front door. Hours ago, there were bodies cooling in the dining room, a whole family tied up and shot, sloppy enough to pass as a rush job done by an over-excited couple of burglars with a violent streak.

They have both suspects in custody. Case neatly wrapped up. Tony gave the press conference that morning.

When the dishes are done and put away, the real perpetrator leads Tony up the stairs to the master bedroom.

There are more pastel purple petals scattered over fresh sheets, a single lamp glowing from beside the bed. The room smells like roses. Like always, Tony removes his holster, places the gun, safety off (Peter likes the thrill), on the nightstand.

A warm body (as familiar and tantalizing as the scent of the red wine sauce, as the rose petals) presses along his back, hands sliding around his hips to unfasten his belt. The leather tugs from the loops with barely a catch, and Tony holds his hand out so Peter, still reaching from behind, can press the smooth, body-temperature length into his palm.

“I’ve been so bad, daddy.” The words are hot, breath-damp on the skin just behind Tony’s ear. “Punish me?”

As the teeth of Tony’s zipper part with agonizing slowness and a hand slides in to cup his already painfully hard length through his underwear, he shuts his eyes and lets the crawl of instinctive, delicious fear trip up and down his nerves, goosebumps rising on his skin.

The scene had been simple this time. If Peter had...played, more, with his mark, then Tony would already be in his own cuffs, his belt around his throat instead of resting in his hand. Those nights are equally as electric, equally as satisfying.

Peter Parker could kill Tony, quickly and efficiently and make it look like an accident, but that’s not going to happen. It’ll never happen, because this apex predator is in its own sick version of love with him.

No, Peter Parker is going to bend over and let Tony whip red welts across the meat of his ass, and then let him fuck him until they’re both too exhausted to do anything but lay stretched out across destroyed sheets and crushed rose petals, sweat cooling on their bodies while Peter kisses and touches Tony like a lover.

And Tony’s going to let him, going to kiss him back, because Peter’s not the only one in a sick version of love.


End file.
